


I Deserve It

by TheSleeplessWriter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adlock, Asexual, Asexual Sherlock, BDSM, Corporal Punishment, Dominatrix, F/M, Fanfiction, First Time, Guilt, Post Johnlock - Freeform, Punishment, Sex, Short Story, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 08:07:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9375863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSleeplessWriter/pseuds/TheSleeplessWriter
Summary: Distraught with guilt after Mary's death, Sherlock goes to Irene for some recreational scolding.





	

Irene took a long time to get home. Sherlock's resolve weakened with every passing minute, uncertainty clawing at him. Her sofa was stiff and burgundy colored, obviously new. Sherlock gripped the arm, impatient as he waited. He had miscalculated her arrival time by an hour or so. Hearing her car pull in brought a great flood of relief. He could finally get this over with. Her heels clicked on the dark wooden floor, a steady metronome as she neared the living room. 

"Bloody hell!" Irene grit out in surprise, her keys falling from her hand to the floor. 

"Careful, you'll scratch that lovely floor." He said coolly. 

She narrowed her eyes at him, dropping down to retrieve her keys. 

Her dark hair was loose and wavy, falling past her shoulders, framing her serious, slender face. She wore a black pencil skirt and blood red blouse, standing on high-as-the-heavens heels. Her infamous scarlet lipstick was nowhere to be seen. 

"I don't care how you found me. What do you want?" She asked, pale arms crossed. 

"A woman is dead. Because of me, my mouth. A husband is now a widower, a baby now motherless." Sherlock avoided her piercing gaze. It didn't take her long to know what he wanted. 

"I am not a kind woman, you should remember that." Irene stated, an icy expression on her face. Her crimson-polished fingernails tapped a beat on her arm. 

"I don't want mercy." Sherlock insisted, trying to quell the fear in his throat. 

She nodded slowly, plans swimming through her head. "Very well. Follow me." Irene led our detective up the winding stairs and into a small room. 

"Step into my parlor." She said with a knowing look, unlocking the door and swinging it open. 

"Said the spider to the fly." Sherlock completed, his voice raspy. 

The room was immaculate with navy blue walls and pitch black tile. Later, Sherlock would realize that blood is easier to clean from tile. A four post bed stood in the center, ominous scratches barely visible on the headboard. A large mahogany dresser was pushed against the wall, its contents filled to the brim with implements. There was a chair and large couch, both luxurious and a matching blue. 

Irene silently left Sherlock, returning after a few minutes. Her hair was pinned in a simple updo, her blood colored lipstick back. 

She delicately seated herself on the chair, crossing her legs. 

"Strip. Fold your clothes and place them on the dresser." Irene ordered, her fingers drumming on the arm. 

Sherlock hesitated before obeying. There's no going back now. It's painfully awkward, the way her eyes never strayed, unashamedly staring. Sherlock carefully folded his clothes, his subconscious begging him to take his time. He was afraid, and he hated to admit it. It's just pain. 

Nevertheless, his hands shook at his pants. Sherlock raked his teeth against his lip and forced them down. 

There was something extremely vulnerable about being naked, especially when the other was completely clothed. There was nothing to hide behind, no concealing his scars. His skin was milky white, save for his cheeks, which burned a red comparable to Irene's lipstick. Goose flesh spread across his body. 

Why is it that humans are so ashamed of nakedness? Sherlock thought on this as he folded his last article of clothing. 

"What is your safeword?" Irene asked, standing in front of the dresser. She seemed to be considering her methods, sliding her hand against the smooth wood. 

"Mary." He answered abruptly, already prepared for the question. 

"Alright." She replies, pulling out the top drawer and retrieving an object. 

Irene reached up and dug her nails into Sherlock's dark hair, dragging him towards the couch. It was a sign, a way to show that the game started now. No more kindness or formalities. 

She roughly threw him across her knee, reflecting on the lovely body in front of her and how she would ruin it. 

Her elbow was a knife against his back, digging hard into his skin. She let it rest there, her other hand gripping the heavy wooden paddle. 

"Does John not do this anymore?" She asked, cruelly making him wait. His body tensed, his hands turning to fists. "I know a sub when I see one." Irene said before Sherlock could question how she knew. 

"It ended after the fall. It was never sexual." Sherlock said after a while, his body loosening. 

"I know. You certainly wish it was romantic." She said, putting down the implement and running her nails against his skin. 

"Just get on with it!" Sherlock muttered, his foot kicking the floor. She clearly touched a sore spot. 

The paddle was back in her hands in a flash, striking the center of his arse hard. A faint pinkish color started to appear, an incentive to hit harder. 

She went again and again, hard and fast, never slowing. Sherlock kicked his legs, clasping his hands together. It hurt much more than he thought. The noise was loud, bouncing off the walls. Her method was aggravating, a constant beat. Similar to the way she tapped her nails, the way her heels clicked on the floor. 

It wasn't until his arse was a glaring pink that he started sounding his pain. First tiny yelps escaped his lips, then slow moans of pain. Sweat fell from his forehead, his hands turned bone white from being clasped. His feet ached from kicking the floor. 

It was only when she started on his thighs that tears started to fall. It wasn't for the pain, but for the realization of his crimes. Sherlock murdered Mary. He did this to her. John lost his wife, Rosie lost her mother. Because of his mouth. It was only a few tears, which he angrily brushed away with the back of his knuckles. His lip bled from constant biting, because it was the only distraction from two very different kinds of pain. 

"Is the great detective in tears?" Irene mocked, landing one more searing hit before pushing him off her lap. He resisted the urge to rub at what felt like an inferno. 

She rummaged in the drawer, pulling out a few more implements. One was a strip of black silk, which she expertly tied against Sherlock's eyes. 

 

"Hands on the wall. Don't dare to let them fall." Irene instructed in a cold voice, shoving his body against the wall. He obeyed, placing his long, slender hands against the navy blue, his pale skin a sharp contrast. 

A crop ran up and down his spine, teasing its next strike. It flew, whistling in the air and landing in between his arse and thighs. It was like a singular line of fire, a lightning bolt. The strike wasn't even that hard, but landing on tender skin amplified it by a thousand. 

The crop returned to his back, a false comfort. All he could concentrate on was when the next hit would fly. After two minutes, another fell, this time on the top of his arse. It had no beat, no predictability. Every choice was random, and it hurt to not know. 

"Count the last ones, and thank me for them." Irene ordered, placing her hand against his back for a better swing. 

One fell across his thighs. "One, thank you Ma'am." Sherlock breathed out, frightened by how shaky his voice was. 

Four fell in rapid succession, all on his undercurve. He rapidly counted and thanked, his voice rising in pain. She went up to twenty five before she finally stopped, removing the blindfold. 

Irene undressed, making sure he was looking. Her body was fit, curves ample. She was the picture of perfection, not a single deformity gracing her creamy skin. Despite the fact that they were both naked, these two were not equal. Sherlock was ashamed, Irene was proud. She only looked more powerful when she was naked. 

And yet, Sherlock was not aroused. Yes, she was a lovely woman, but he was not attracted to her. He wasn't attracted to anyone. He knew that he was somewhere on the asexual spectrum, with some romantic tendencies. 

"You useless thing." Irene shouted, even though she had nothing against asexuality. It was part of the game. The dominatrix was ready for this, and had a glass of water. She ripped open a little foil packet, dumping the powder in. 

Her claw like fingers returned to his scalp, forcing his head up as she poured the drink down his throat. 

It didn't take long for him to get hard. 

"Wait, Mar-." Sherlock whispered, taking a step back. Sex was alien and frightening to him, something he wanted no part in. 

"Are you safewording out?" Irene asked in a deathly quiet voice, stepping nearer. 

"No." Sherlock replied, no matter how much he wanted to. His grayish green eyes were terrified."I've never..." His voice trailed off. 

"I don't care." She retorted. 

The soft bed was ignored, Irene vying for the tile floor instead. She would be less comfortable on the floor, yet she was willing to sacrifice a little discomfort if it meant punishing Sherlock more. 

His arse was pressed hard against the tile as Irene lowered herself onto Sherlock. 

He hated every second of it. It was rough and painful. It was humiliating. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the burning of his arse, wishing it to be over quickly. Irene pulled herself out as soon as she came, denying Sherlock any. 

There were four little metal posts on the floor, which Irene handcuffed him to before slamming the door and leaving. 

Alone, Sherlock wept bitterly as he waited for the hour to finish.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, damn. That's the darkest thing I've ever written. I would love to hear your thoughts! Feel free to leave kudos, comments, and constructive criticism.


End file.
